


Confessions

by Glassdarkly



Series: Second Front [5]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Drama, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles and Robson 'come in from the cold' and take their various charges to safety at Watchers' Council HQ. Unfortunately, Giles discovers that 'safety' is still a relative term.</p><p>The fifth story in the Second Front series, an alternate canon BtVS season 7.</p><p>First posted to Livejournal, August 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> The character of Molly the Potential Slayer in this story differs greatly from the show. She's far more Kelly from _Misfits_ than Dick Van Dyke from _Mary Poppins'_ cheery faux-Cockney granddaughter.

"Miss Gieves-Bowen, Miss Lynch?" Giles set down the holdall and held out his hand. "My name's Rupert Giles. You spoke to my colleague, Mr Robson, on the phone."

Two pairs of eyes stared suspiciously back at him as the girls drew closer together. After a moment, Giles let his hand drop, feeling slightly foolish.

They were a mismatched pair, the Gieves-Bowen girl fresh-faced as if straight from the hockey field, while the other had the sallow look of bad diets and inner city living, not helped by severely scraped back hair and an over application of black eye-liner. Yet they were alike in one very important way. 

"As Potential Slayers," Giles told them, "your lives are in danger. I've come to take you to a place of safety at the Watchers' Council headquarters."

Miss Gieves-Bowen's tense posture relaxed a little. "Oh thank goodness," she exclaimed. But the Lynch girl just glared at him.

"Why the fuck should we trust _you_ , granddad?"

"Molly!" Miss Gieves-Bowen gave her a reproachful look. "He just said he's a Watcher."

Molly? Giles raised an eyebrow at the girl, whose sullen expression revealed she wasn't fond of the name.

"Yeah, so?" Molly snapped. "Just 'cos he says it don't mean it's true. F'you weren't so bloody thick, you'd know that, Annabelle."

Miss Gieves-Bowen – Annabelle - looked taken aback. Obviously, the idea that Giles might be lying had never occurred to her, and Giles found himself making mental notes, as if she were his Slayer to mould and train: _gullible, too much trust in authority figures_. Travers would love her, of course.

"You're quite right to be suspicious," he said, addressing both girls. "I'm afraid I can't do much to reassure you except to remind you again that your lives are in danger and that standing in the open like this is not helping matters."

He gestured for them to precede him towards the taxi rank. They went, not without some dubious looks. It was a measure of how scared they were, Giles supposed, that they got into a taxi with him and let him shut the door on them. 

Not that they didn't have good reason to be afraid. Giles's ears were still ringing a whole two hours after some of the most unpleasant phone calls he'd ever had to make in his life. One of the dead girl's mothers had…well, Giles didn't blame her. 

Giles gave the cabbie the address of Robson's flat in Bayswater. As the cab jerked into motion, he turned to the girls again. "We just have to pick up a few things. Then we're going to Council Headquarters in Russell Square."

Annabelle's face took on an odd expression, Giles wasn't sure whether of relief or apprehension. "Will Mr Travers be there?" 

"Indubitably," Giles assured her, at which Molly rolled her eyes and muttered, "Indub-fucking what? Talk English, can't you?"

"Do be quiet, Molly," Annabelle pleaded. She'd gone very pale, and to Giles's surprise Molly looked at her, frowned, and shut her mouth. The two girls sat, side by side, shoulders touching, facing Giles across the cab as it jounced over potholes and shot through traffic lights on amber. Their very different faces wore identical expressions of anxiety bordering on terror. Whatever had galvanised them into taking up Robson's offer of sanctuary, it had scared them a great deal. 

Giles cleared his throat. Perhaps a little light conversation might help matters?

"So," he said. "Have you two known each other long?"

Annabelle looked bemused at the suggestion, but Molly laughed outright. "You stupid, or what? 'Course we en't. Only just met on the train this morning." She indicated Annabelle with a nod of the head that set her ponytail swinging fiercely. "Never even heard of Slayers till she told me. Or Watchers. They all as decrepit as you?"

"Oh, most of them are far worse," Giles assured her. "Positively ancient." 

Molly's belligerent tone reminded Giles of Spike. He took a deep breath, forcing down the memory of Spike's resigned expression – the neat, round hole of the gunshot wound in his pale forehead. 

Giles had aimed with care. He'd wanted Spike incapacitated, but not indefinitely. He would be sleeping off the injury now – consciousness fled, while his inhuman body healed itself. When he woke up, how different things would be. Betrayed to the Watchers' Council by the man who'd sworn to help him.

Not for the first time, Giles reminded himself that Spike had killed Harriet Harkness. Obviously, he'd not been in his right mind at the time, but that made no difference. He was too dangerous to let live.

 _And too valuable to kill_ , Giles's inner Watcher insisted. _He knows things – far more than he's told you so far. If you can't get it out of him, perhaps Travers can_.

Annabelle jerked Giles out of his reverie. "I don’t think this is the way to Bayswater, Mr Giles. Where are we going?" 

A cold hand seemed to grab Giles's heart and squeeze. He looked out of the cab window. Definitely not Bayswater. Instead, they were heading deeper into the maze of streets around Elephant and Castle.

Giles rapped on the driver's partition. "Excuse me! You're going the wrong way."

The cabbie didn't turn around. Giles stared at his long pale hands with their curved nails gripping the steering wheel and decided he was grateful for that. London taxis were nerve wracking enough when your driver had eyes. 

"What is it?" Annabelle squeaked. "Mr Giles – what's going on?"

Giles shook his head at her. When she opened her mouth again, he put his finger to his lips and frowned. 

"Shut up, Annabelle, all right?" Molly hissed at her.

Giles was glad one of them had got the message. He took Robson's gun out of his pocket and slipped off the safety as quietly as he could, while the two girls stared at him, Annabelle in horror and Molly with grudging respect.

"What are you going to do?" Annabelle wailed. 

"Down on the floor," Giles said. "And hang on to something."

Annabelle just gaped at him, but Molly pulled her down onto the floor of the taxi. "Get down, you dozy cow." 

The taxi slowed a little to negotiate a left turn. As they swung around the corner, Giles slid open the glass partition and shot the Bringer point blank in the back of the head. The man – if indeed the Bringers were men – slumped forward over the wheel, while the taxi careered on down the narrow street, clipped a parked car, swung half around and at last came to a juddering halt. 

Giles let go his death grip on the door handle. That had gone much better than he'd had any right to expect. In fact…

His shoulders and arms were aching like blazes as he pushed open the door and slid into the driver's seat. The steering wheel was unpleasantly blood spattered, but at least they had transport. 

"Hold on tight," he said to the two girls as the cab jerked into motion again.

*

It took Robson some time to un-barricade the door. As they waited in the dark hallway, Giles kept glancing over his shoulder. He felt as if hidden eyes were watching them constantly. It was unnerving.

At last, the door swung open to reveal Robson's pale, worried face. He looked older than he had the night before. Even his hairline seemed to have receded further. Giles wondered what he looked like himself. Not much better, probably.

Robson gestured at the holdall Giles was carrying. "You got them?"

Giles nodded. 

"Annabelle? Molly?" Robson looked from one girl to the other, trying, and miserably failing, to smile. "The others are here, Norah," he called over his shoulder as he ushered them into the flat. "Are you nearly ready?"

Norah didn't reply. Giles had a feeling he knew where she was. He helped Robson replace the barricade while Annabelle and Molly stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

"What a fucking dump." Molly said, at last. "Isn't even a telly."

Robson gave her a startled glance, while Annabelle looked momentarily shocked before snorting with laughter. Giles ignored them. "How's Norah doing?"

Robson sighed. "Not well, I fear. I don't think she'll ever forgive you, Rupert." He shook his head. "And I can't say I understand what happened myself. You keep promising to explain everything, yet you don't actually do it."

Giles resisted the urge to take off his glasses and polish them. Robson would see right through the gesture. "I'm sorry, Charles. Once we've made sure the girls are safe, I'll tell you everything, I swear. Have you phoned Travers?"

Robson's lips thinned. "Yes. He was at his self-righteous best – said we'd done incalculable damage to the cause, put Potential Slayers' lives at risk, etcetera, etcetera."

"I can imagine." Giles grimaced. "It could have been worse, though. If Roger Wyndam-Pryce _had_ been elected head of the Council…."

Robson's pallor took on a bilious hue. "Don't even think it."

Giles left him to try and placate Molly, whose complaints were becoming increasingly vocal, picked up the holdall he'd brought with him and made his way to the bedroom. 

In spite of his scandalised reaction to Giles's request, Robson had proved to possess a very Watcher-ly collection of restraints. Spike was chained and hobbled and tied to the bed with vampire-proof ropes for good measure. Not that he was remotely conscious. His eyes were closed, his face as still and pale as a plaster effigy, the only colour on it the livid purple of the bullet wound. Anyone coming across him and not in the supernatural know would have pronounced him dead on the spot.

Norah was standing next to the bed. Giles had caught her in the act of reaching out to touch Spike's face. Seeing him, she snatched her hand back and glared.

"What do _you_ want?" she growled. "Are you going to shoot him again?"

Giles ignored the question. "The others are here. We'll be leaving in five minutes. Better get your things together."

Norah opened her mouth to speak again, but Giles shook his head at her, and whatever she saw in his face seemed to warn her off. She walked stiffly past him. 

"He saved my life. I won't let you hurt him again."

 _He would have killed you_ , Giles wanted to say, _if I hadn't snapped him out of his trance_. It seemed that Spike had exercised his inimitable version of thrall again.

He shut the door quietly behind Norah, set the holdall down on the floor and opened it. Taking out the black plastic body bag, he unrolled it and laid it out on the bed. The ropes would have to come off, of course. Giles tried to untie them without touching Spike's body, but it was impossible. His hand brushed against a leg, an arm, the lithe torso, bringing back memories both fond and quite the opposite. 

Giles frowned in annoyance. This wasn't the time for sentimentality. Once again he reminded himself that Spike was Harriet Harkness's murderer, not to mention Buffy's would-be rapist. That apart, there were all the countless lives Spike was guilty of destroying, including those of two Slayers. Next to these atrocities, whatever misguided feelings Giles might have developed for him weighed like feathers in the balance. 

The ropes removed, Giles rolled Spike into the body bag, dragged it into the centre of the bed and rolled him again, onto his back. One long dark blonde curl had flopped into his eyes and Giles brushed it away automatically. Somehow, it then became impossible to remove his hand. 

Giles stroked Spike's face. Bending down, he kissed his cold, dry lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You gave me no choice."

But of course Spike didn't respond, just lay still, pale face a silent accusation. 

Giles shuddered. Hurriedly, he zipped up the body bag. Task completed, he did the same to the body of the unconscious Bringer, which lay next door in the spare bedroom. As he worked, he reflected that the taxi incident had really been rather fortunate. At least they wouldn't have to explain to a cabbie why they wanted to stow two body bags in the boot.

*

Travers was grim when he met them in the lobby at Russell Square, accompanied by his usual entourage of sycophants, each of whom wore an identical expression of po-faced disapproval.

"You pair of bloody fools," Travers said. 

Giles gritted his teeth, close to losing his temper already. He shifted the body bag on his shoulders. "Yes, well. At least we're still alive. No thanks to you, Quentin."

Travers bristled. He didn't like reminders that he and Giles were near contemporaries, or familiarity in front of subordinates. But he forced a more pleasant expression onto his face as he greeted the three Potentials.

"Annabelle, my dear. How nice to see you again. Your mother's been on the phone already. You really shouldn't have worried her like that, running away from school."

Annabelle flushed slightly and hung her head. "Sorry, Mr Travers."

Molly gave her a disgusted look. "Who're you, then?" she growled at Travers. "Some old paedo, or what?"

Travers's eyes narrowed. He didn't like rude, insubordinate young women either.

"I'm the head of the Watchers' Council, Miss Lynch," he said, "and I'd advise you to watch your tongue."

"'Ike 'is 'oo mean?" Molly stuck her tongue out of her mouth and squinted at it, while Giles tried desperately not to laugh, Annabelle sniggered, and even Norah giggled.

"Very amusing," Travers said, dryly. He turned to his entourage. "Miss Chalmers, take these young ladies to the canteen. I'm sure they're thirsty after their journey."

Lydia Chalmers, immaculate as always in grey wool despite the stuffy heat of the old building, winced slightly, as if the three girls might contaminate her somehow. "Of course, Mr Travers." She made a vague, shepherding motion at them. "This way."

"Got any vodka?" Molly asked, as she and Annabelle were led away, setting off another bout of hysterical giggling from Annabelle. But Norah hesitated.

"Mr Robson? Are you all right?"

Giles realised that Robson's eyes were fixed on another of Travers's aides, Nigel De Souza.

Oh, of course. The ex-lover. Embarrassed, Giles looked away, just as Robson coloured and did the same. De Souza meanwhile was looking anywhere but at Robson. 

The girls safely out of earshot, Travers gestured at the body bags. "What have you brought me?"

Giles clutched the body bag more tightly. He didn't like the proprietary note in Travers's voice. 

"In that one – " he indicated the one Robson was carrying with a nod of his head – "is a Bringer -one of three who invaded Charles's home last night. We disposed of the other two."

"Interesting," Travers said, though not as if he meant it. "Doubt we'll get anything useful out of him, but you never know. What about the other one?" 

Giles gritted his teeth. "It's that vampire I told you about. William the Bloody – Spike, that is."

Travers' gaze sharpened. "Is it, indeed? I thought you said he'd escaped."

Giles gritted harder, very aware of Robson's questioning gaze on his face. "I lied."

"Did you, by Jove?" Travers didn't say any more, but his expression boded trouble. "Lets discuss this further in my office, shall we?"

As he spoke, the weight of the body bag on Giles's shoulders lightened, and he found himself in a sudden tug-of-war with a black-clad Council operative. 

"If you don't mind, sir?" the man said, pulling at the body bag. 

Giles held on. "What are you going to do with him?"

Travers' face had acquired a calculating look. "What's it to you, Mr Giles?"

Giles tried to think of Harriet Harkness – of Buffy. "He's a valued ally," he said. "I don't want him mistreated."

The group of aides standing behind Travers stirred and muttered, while Robson, who had handed over the Bringer's body with a sigh of relief, gave Giles an openly puzzled look.

"Odd," Travers opined, while Giles continued his obstinate wrestling with the operative. "That's not what you said on the phone a few weeks ago when I made the very same point about this vampire. As I recall, understanding him to have become a quasi-ally of sorts, I questioned your desire to hand him over to the Council, and you said, and I quote, 'He's a vampire – a beast, a killer.'" 

Mentally kicking himself yet again, Giles said, "When I said that, I didn't know he'd got himself a soul."

At once, the lobby fell silent. The aides stopped muttering, the operative stopped pulling at the body bag. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. 

"I _beg_ you pardon?" Travers said, at last. 

Nothing to do now but brazen it out. "He has a soul," Giles repeated, emphasising the word. "Took it into his head to get one of his own volition. And no, I am not going to explain further, because it's none of my business, or yours."

"I beg to differ," Travers said, coldly. "Vampires don't have souls – except for one, if you can believe the stories – and they don't want them either."

"It's true, though," Robson cut in. "You can't mistake it, Mr Travers, when you talk to him. He saved Norah's life last night."

Travers continued to look sceptical. Ignoring Robson, he gestured at the body bag. "If that's the case, why bring him to us like this?"

"Because there's a problem," Giles admitted. "A very big problem. And it has to do with the current…situation." He winced inwardly at the memory. "I had to disable him temporarily. And if you don't mind, I would really rather not talk about it any further in front of all and sundry."

Travers gave him another of his calculating looks. "Let's retire to my office, then, as I suggested. The vampire can be placed in a holding cell meanwhile. You have my word he won't be harmed."

Without waiting for a response, Travers addressed the operative. "Carry on, Griffiths."

"Yessir." The operative tugged at the body bag again, and this time Giles let it go. He winced as Griffiths slung it over his own shoulder and walked briskly away, jouncing the already traumatised body unmercifully. Giles wanted to yell at the man to be careful, but he was acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the lobby fixed on him, with varying expressions of curiosity and calculation. 

And, judging by Robson's purse-lipped face, outrage. Belatedly, Giles realised it wasn't only Norah that Spike had put under thrall. 

Travers cleared his throat. "If you wouldn't mind, ladies and gentlemen, back to work. Don't forget we are on a war footing. Come with me," he said, to Giles and Robson. 

They exchanged looks. It felt ominously like being called to the headmaster's study, as Travers had no doubt intended it should. 

Bloody typical! Giles gritted his teeth again as he followed Travers' departing back.

*

"Scotch? It's a little early in the day, I know," Travers said.

Giles opened his mouth to say yes, only for Robson to get there first. "No thank you, sir. I'd rather stay clear-headed."

Travers gave Robson a withering look, part old public school boy confronted by a ghastly grammar school oik who'd never been taught how to hold his drink, part something a lot less pleasant. "Rupert?"

Giles shook his head. "No thank you, Quentin. As the Americans say, I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." Travers poured a finger of scotch out of the decanter and sat down behind his desk. He took a small sip, set the glass down and glowered at them. "I hope you realise what utter fools you've been?"

Giles bristled. "I disagree, Quentin," he said, before Robson could speak. "We can't be blamed for trying to do our job as best we could in the absence of coherent orders."

"As best you could?" Travers glared. "Robson, here, informs me that four – four, Rupert!- of the potential Slayers you took it upon yourselves to 'protect' have been murdered. That's appalling."

"Better than forty, though," Giles said, stiffly, "which I understand is nearer your tally."

Travers' jaw dropped. "Who told you that?" He glared at Robson. "I was right not to trust you. That information was confidential."

Robson's face had acquired a stubborn look. "For anyone outside the organisation, yes. Rupert and I are Watchers."

Giles nodded grimly. "Or so we thought." 

Travers glowered, but he looked defensive too. "Our initial combat strategy was flawed, I admit," he said. "We have things more under control now." 

Pompous old fool! Giles took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to annoy Travers too much. They still needed his help.

"Rather thought you might," he said. "That's why Charles and I decided to come in. Things are getting bad out there. Feeling a little out of our depth."

"Well, quite." Travers looked insufferably smug. Leaning back in his chair, he regarded them over steepled fingers. "I can't promise there won't be consequences. The insubordination alone is intolerable. But at least you've had the sense to realise your error. Accommodation is at a premium here for the duration, but we'll manage to squeeze you and the young ladies in somehow."

"Thank you, sir," Robson said. It almost sounded as if he meant it. 

Travers's sly eyes narrowed. "And you've brought me this vampire, and under such odd circumstances that I admit I'm intrigued. You're certain he has a soul?"

"Oh yes," Robson said, sounding far too fervent for Giles's liking. "He's…"

"Yes," Giles cut in. "I've been familiar with him for several years, Quentin, as you know. He's very different to how he used to be."

Travers leaned forward, his Watcher-ly curiosity evidently piqued. "In what way? And what on earth caused him to want a soul in the first place? Are you sure about that, by the way, Rupert? It sounds very unlikely to me."

Giles took off his glasses and polished them, playing for time. He could not – would not – bring Buffy into it. What had happened between her and Spike was none of his business. 

"As best I can make it out," he said, carefully, "being defanged – if one can put it that way - by the behaviour modification chip made Spike a pariah among his own kind. As a consequence, he started consorting with the Slayer and her friends – helping them out here and there. For money initially, and the sheer love of violence."

Travers nodded. "That was our thinking on the matter too, after young Lydia interviewed him eighteen months ago. His motives were purely mercenary." 

"To start with, yes," Giles agreed. He was feeling his way, he realised. He'd never given the matter much thought until now. "However, I believe he became habituated to human company and over time, with painful slowness, has developed what one might call a rudimentary conscience." He frowned, choosing his words with care. "I suspect he must have experienced some kind of emotional crisis and decided that getting his soul back was the only way to resolve it. He always was rather a rash sort of fellow."

Travers pursed his lips. "It sounds plausible enough, apart from that nonsense about developing a rudimentary conscience. Vampires can't change, Rupert. We know that for a fact."

"Do we?" Giles looked him straight in the eye. "Pardon me, Quentin, but to my knowledge, no vampire has ever been put in Spike's position before. Unique circumstances, unique reaction."

Travers looked sceptical. "Perhaps," he conceded. 

Giles cleared his throat. "In any case, I didn't bring Spike here as some sort of laboratory specimen. I brought him because his getting himself a soul appears to have had very unfortunate consequences – for him. Possibly for all of us." 

"Oh?" Travers looked wary. "And what would those be?"

Giles became aware of Robson's eyes fixed on his face. Of course, all this was news to him too.

"It appears that acquiring a soul takes a heavy spiritual toll on a demon – a fact that the other vampire with a soul – Angel – would doubtless corroborate. Imagine doing the things vampires do and suddenly waking up to the full horror of it? It's left Spike traumatised and very vulnerable. I believe he's in thrall to the First."

"Oh my God!" Robson looked appalled, and outraged. Before either he or Travers could speak, Giles ploughed onwards.

"I believe Spike is only dimly aware of what is happening to him. Most of the time, he's himself – whatever that is these days – but then something triggers him. It's as if his core personality goes to sleep to be replaced by a mindless killer. He's done…terrible things under the First's influence, but wakes up with no memory of them."

"What…"Robson swallowed hard. "What terrible things?"

Giles kept his face expressionless. "He killed Harriet Harkness."

Robson's hand flew to his mouth. "Oh God!"

"And what else?" Travers's voice was flint, like his face. 

Giles took off his glasses again and rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted suddenly. "Isn't that enough?"

"Last night…"Robson began, but his voice trailed off.

"Yes," Giles agreed. "He'd been triggered to kill Norah. He was on the point of strangling me when he snapped out of it."

Robson stared. "So you shot him."

Giles nodded. "I shot him."

"Triggered, you say?" Travers said. "How?"

Giles sighed. "That's why I brought him here. He knows – I'm certain he knows – but he's being very unco-operative. He won't talk about it. But there's this song. It's something to do with that, I'm sure." 

"A song." Travers' sceptical look was back. "How can you be so certain? What if he's deceiving you? What if he's been working for the First all along?"

Giles put his glasses back on. He looked Travers full in the face. "I can't say I haven't thought of that. Another reason why I brought him here. Charles and I don't have the resources that you do, Quentin. We need to do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this- to break the First's conditioning. Spike might have vital information. Besides, he's too dangerous otherwise."

Travers met his gaze steadily. "And if we can't break it?"

Giles grimaced. "We need to put him out of his misery."

*

"I can see why you kept so much from me."

Robson was furious, and Giles couldn't blame him. 

"I'm sorry," he said, again. "I was going to tell you everything, but…events got in the way."

Robson took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. The brew served up in the canteen hadn't improved at all – bitter, with a stale edge. Giles suspected there was a huge catering pack of the stuff in the kitchen store cupboard dating from the 1950s, and that the canteen staff still used it.

"I understand that," Robson said. "And I don't blame you for taking Harriet Harkness's advice. I've always found it very sensible. A pity that in this instance it wasn't really her advice."

"Indeed." Giles was thinking yet again about that lonely place on the hillside near the Westbury house, under the solitary oak tree. With a shudder, he realised that the dirt he'd found on Spike's hands on the fateful night when the First had appeared to him as Jenny hadn't come from more digging but from burying Ms Harkness's body. 

"What I do blame you for," Robson said, breaking into Giles's reverie, "is not telling me that you and this vampire of yours are lovers. "

Giles almost dropped his cup. "I beg your pardon?" 

Robson had gone a dull pink. "I'm not stupid, you know, Rupert."

Giles winced. "I know that, Charles, believe me." He licked his lips. He and Robson needed to be on the same page or Travers would eat them both for breakfast. "I understand that you're probably disgusted with me. Sleeping with vampires? I expect you think I've sunk pretty low. I wish I could say Spike had me under thrall. But I'm sure we both know that would be a lie."

The dull pink became a duller crimson. "Indeed," Robson said. "However, you misunderstand me. I don't judge you for your choice of…of bedfellow. On the contrary, it's your betrayal of him that appals me."

The words were like a sudden blow from behind. Giles stared at Robson, not sure he'd heard properly. 

"Poor creature," Robson said. "I know what betrayal feels like."

He was looking over Giles's shoulder as he spoke. Giles glanced around, to see that Nigel De Souza, in blue medical scrubs, had entered the canteen and was ordering food at the counter. His back was very stiff, his hands clenched into fists. You could almost hear him telling himself to ignore them. 

"I'm sorry," Giles said, just to have something to say.

Robson tore his gaze away from De Souza with a noticeable effort. "You know what they'll do to your Spike, don't you?"

Giles sipped his coffee. It was disgusting. He wished he'd ordered tea instead. 

"Yes. I'm not fool enough to believe Travers's promise that they won't harm him."

"They'll extract all the information you've helpfully told them he possesses – using torture if necessary. Then they'll kill him," Robson said, as if he still doubted Giles's apprehension of the truth.

Giles winced. The bald facts were inescapable. 

"I hope my presence will be a mitigating factor when it comes to torture, Charles, but if the First's hold on Spike can't be broken, I genuinely believe he is better off dead."

Robson pursed his lips. "I thought better of you. You should have killed him yourself."

Giles reflected that Robson was young – ten years younger than himself. He still had some of his youthful idealism, despite Travers' shoddy treatment of him. 

"I'm sorry, Charles. I would have spared him if I could, but as I said to Travers, he knows more than he's saying – maybe more than he realises. We have to think of the bigger picture. The Slayer's life – the very Slayer line – is in danger, and it may be of vital importance that we know what Spike can't – or won't - tell us of his own free will." 

Robson glared, not much mollified. "And if it turns out he doesn't know anything?"

Giles shook his head. "I'm sure he does."

"But _if_ he doesn't," Robson insisted.

Giles sighed. Taking off his glasses, he polished them again. Robson watched him irritably, while stealing surreptitious glances at De Souza, who was now sitting at a table on the far side of the room, shovelling food down at top speed as if he couldn't wait to be finished.

Giles put his glasses back on. "If he doesn't, it'll lend more weight to the adage that there's no fool like an old fool, and I may have to live the remainder of my sorry life with his death on my conscience."

Robson said nothing. He glanced at De Souza again, grimaced, and drank more coffee. After a moment, De Souza pushed his empty plate away, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and left the room smartly without once looking back. Robson watched him go. His face had acquired a pinched, yearning look. 

"I appreciate we're not..not together any more," he muttered, "but I do wish he wouldn't make it quite so plain he'd rather I went to the devil."

Robson was normally so tight-lipped about his private life that his sudden openness made Giles's face burn in embarrassment. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

"Surely not." 

Robson half-smiled. "Oh, I think so. I expect he's back in the closet too, like you."

Giles blinked. He wanted to protest his unfamiliarity with the insides of closets, but fortunately better sense prevailed. In the circumstances, it would be rank hypocrisy, and Robson might see it as a personal slight.

"Not that he ever really left," Robson continued, bitterly. "Too concerned about his career. I was a fool ever to leave it myself. Let my feelings for him sweep me away. It hasn’t done me any favours with Travers."

Giles could well imagine. 

"Love makes you do stupid things," Robson said, bleakly, through another sip of coffee. "I thought….well, I won't tell you what I thought, but it hurts to see him again – so beautiful, and so completely out of reach." 

He put his coffee cup down with a decisive clink. "You're a bloody fool, Rupert."

Giles opened his mouth to reply, though he had no idea what he was going to say, but then the canteen door swung open again and Norah entered the room. Her face was pale and pinched, like Robson's, and her mouth set into a grim line when she saw Giles. Nevertheless, she made her way between the tables and came to a halt next to Robson's chair.

"Norah?" Robson attempted another unsuccessful smile. "What's the matter?"

Norah threw Giles a hateful look. "I don't like it here, Mr Robson. I want to go home."

Robson's already strained expression grew more strained. "Why? Are you not getting on with the others?"

Norah hunched her shoulders into an indifferent teenage shrug. "S'not that."

"What then?" When Norah's only response was to throw Giles another hateful look, Robson sighed.

"I understand how you feel, Norah. Believe me, I do. However, Mr Giles believes he had perfectly legitimate reasons for his actions. You can say what you like in front of him."

Norah just glared. "He shot Spike. I _liked_ Spike."

Robson looked severe. "Spike is a vampire, Norah. Don't forget that. Mr Giles was trying to protect you."

Norah looked stubbornly unconvinced. " _Spike_ would never have let him bring us to this place. It's horrible, Mr Robson, and everyone's so creepy around that Mr Travers. Annabelle's scared of him."

"Oh?" Robson glanced at Giles. "I thought her parents were friends of his."

Norah shook her head. "Only her dad, and then only because he went to school with Mr Travers' nephew. Annabelle's mum doesn't like him at all." She hunched her shoulders even higher. "They've split us up too. Annabelle has a room on the top floor in this building, but they've stuck Molly and me away in somewhere they call the Annexe. We have to do all these tests, Ms Chalmers says - blood tests -even psychiatric evaluations. That's 'cos Molly told her to bog off and I laughed. Annabelle laughed too, but they didn't say she had to do the psych test."

"Oh?" Robson was frowning, and Giles realised he was doing the same. Fishing in his pocket, he brought out his room key – no 10, one of the attic rooms in the main building. 

Robson was looking at his own key. "Well," he said, to Norah, "I'm in the Annexe too, if that helps - just down the corridor from you. As for the psych tests, they're nothing to worry about, Norah. Really."

Norah brightened a little at Robson's words. "You positive?"

"Quite sure," Robson assured her, while Giles sipped his cold coffee and tried to look unconcerned. "I had one when I became a Watcher. It's just routine. Annabelle was on the Council's radar, so she's probably done one already."

"All right, then," Norah said. Giles waited for her to go, but she didn't. Instead, she bit her lip, looked at the floor, looked at Giles, then back at the floor again. "What'll happen to him? Spike, I mean. Will they kill him?"

"No," Giles heard himself say, more forcefully than he'd intended. "Absolutely not, Norah. You have my word."

Norah blinked, then frowned. "You'd better mean that," she said, in a rather belligerent tone. Then she turned on her heel and walked towards the door. "The three of us are supposed to be having the guided tour. Then we have to see the doctor, even though none of us are ill. I'd better get back before Ms Chalmers comes looking for me."

The canteen door swung shut behind her. Giles opened his mouth to speak, but Robson forestalled him. 

"I don't like this," Robson said. "I don't like it at all."

*

Giles rolled over onto his back again, but it was no good. Changing position didn't make the narrow metal-framed bed with its lumpy mattress any more comfortable, or the thin cotton sheets less scratchy.

The bedrooms in Council Headquarters were an afterthought – set up in the attics – the old servants' wing of the building - with the Spartan feel of an officers' mess. A pity, Giles, thought, that the comparison didn't extend to the dining facilities and the quality of wine in the cellar. 

Not that there _was_ a wine cellar. Instead, the lower levels of the building were taken up with an emergency war room dating from the Second World War, the antique bakelite telephones still in place, and with cells and interrogation rooms – all very low-tech. When it came to extracting information, the Council was still stuck firmly in the age of thumbscrews and red-hot pincers. 

Giles sat up suddenly. It wouldn't come to that. He wouldn't allow it. 

Getting out of bed, he began to pace up and down the room. He wished he'd kept Spike's cigarettes and lighter, because he could do with a smoke just now – anything to distract him from the nagging feeling that yet again he'd made a huge error of judgement. 

The way he and Annabelle – the favoured Potential - had been separated from Robson and the other girls bothered him enormously – far more than he'd admitted to Robson. What was Travers up to? It seemed like more than the time honoured divide and conquer.

Of course, Travers had a somewhat antediluvian view of anything of a sexual nature, so his estimation of Robson post-coming out was consequently pretty low, but that didn't explain Norah and Molly. Why separate the three girls, especially since – rather improbably – Annabelle and Molly appeared to have bonded?

Giles could only suppose that good old-fashioned snobbery came into it somewhere. Robson hadn't been to the right school and didn't come from an old Watcher family – though he was hardly alone in that – and if Norah hadn't been tainted by association when they arrived in the building, she was now, having made her allegiance so clear. 

As for Molly, she only had to open her mouth to put herself beyond the pale. 

But it was all rather extreme, even for Travers. Perhaps it was more a matter of attitude? Robson had an unfortunate habit of asking too many pertinent questions.

Giles shook his head. That didn't quite work either. If standing up to Travers was all it took, why was he one of the favoured ones, instead of being relegated to the outer darkness with Robson? He and Travers had never got along.

Crossing to the utilitarian sink in the corner, Giles opened the cold tap. He splashed water on his face and neck and patted them dry with the rough face towel. He wouldn't get answers to these questions by lying in bed waiting for them, any more than he would discover how Spike was faring. 

Dressing quickly, he slipped his room key into his pocket and went out into the corridor. 

For a moment, he stood still, listening hard. Of course, there was no escape from the endless traffic noise outside, but the building itself was deathly quiet around him. Apart from….

Giles frowned. He listened again, but this time he heard nothing. As he made his way to the stairs, he reminded himself of the statistical unlikelihood of London being struck by an earthquake, or even experiencing a tremor. But during his time in California, he'd become sensitive to the state of the earth beneath his feet, and that had felt very like one. Odd. 

On the first floor landing, Giles stopped and listened again. The air prickled with magic, but that was only to be expected. The Council building always did have strong wards in place, and it was only good sense to beef them up even further given the current state of emergency.

As he descended the basement stairs, Giles felt the tremor again – so faint it was more of an impression of one than an actual tremor. 

_From beneath you, it devours_. The ominous words echoed in Giles's head, but the sudden agonised groan that rent the air drove them from his thoughts. That had been Spike. Cold sweat broke out on the back of Giles's neck. He began to run down the maze of corridors. But he stopped again abruptly at the sound of Travers' raised voice. 

"Careful, you idiot. I don't want any marks showing."

"Sorry, sir." It sounded like Griffiths – the rather surly fellow who'd relieved Giles of Spike. 

"And be more careful with the vampire. Any further injuries will only slow us down," Travers went on. "Must say, I wish that fool Giles had shot him in the legs. The recovery time for a head wound is so damn slow."

Giles flattened himself against the wall. He'd come far enough that he must be under the Annexe now. Not an area of the building he was familiar with.

Edging to the corner, he peered around it into a long corridor lined on each side with holding cells. All the heavy metal doors were shut save for one, from which a bright, fluorescent glare blazed out into the unlit passageway. There was a metallic rattle and clink from inside the room, and then a new voice spoke. 

"The line's in now, sir," De Souza said. "The transfusion will take a while, of course, given that the…er, recipient is essentially dead, but it should speed his recovery."

"Good," Travers said. "You'll monitor the situation overnight, De Souza. Don't be afraid to wake me if there's any change in the vampire's condition. Time is of the essence and we're running out of it fast. Griffiths will stop by every half hour when he does his rounds."

"Yes sir." De Souza didn't sound too thrilled at the prospect. 

Giles drew back as Travers exited the room with Griffiths right behind him. His first instinct was to run back the way he'd come, but it was too late. They would hear him. But to his relief, their footsteps receded down the corridor in the other direction. A moment later, there was the unmistakeable sound of lift machinery working. 

Under cover of it, Giles crept as quietly as he could in the direction of the open cell door. 

When he peered around the doorframe, the bright light blinded him momentarily. He drew back and waited a moment, blinking his eyes rapidly. Then he risked another glance. 

The cell was set up like a small clinic. De Souza, with his back to Giles and still in his blue scrubs, was closest to the door, blocking the view into the room. He was staring intently at a blood bag on a metal stand. Blood dripped steadily down the plastic tubing into the arm of De Souza's patient. Giles craned his head to see better and his stomach lurched uncomfortably.

Spike was naked from the waist up, the telltale scars of his self-inflicted wounds stark and red on his deathly pale skin. The First's sigil couldn't have been plainer. He was chained, the lower half of his face, from the bridge of the nose to the jaw, covered with a tight fitting, heavy-duty leather muzzle – a regulation restraint for any vampire captive on Council property. 

As Giles stared, aghast, he realised that Spike was no longer deeply unconscious. His eyelids were moving. He was dreaming again. 

Somewhere deep beneath Giles's feet, the earth stirred for a third time, like a silent bell tolling. 

"What the bloody hell was that?" De Souza grabbed hold of the bed to steady himself, and Giles drew hurriedly back out of sight. He waited a long, tense moment, expecting De Souza to exit the room in panic. 

But nothing happened, and after a moment, De Souza muttered, "Steady, you idiot. This is London. We don't have earthquakes." There was the sound of a newspaper rustling, followed by silence.

Giles counted to ten. Then he glanced around the doorframe again. De Souza was sitting down, perched rather uncomfortably on an upright chair, doing the Times crossword. 

It was only now that Giles realised there was a second bed in the room and another piece of plastic tubing attached to the blood bag. His eye followed it along its length to where it entered a wooden box on a table, around which magic sparked and fizzed, like electricity. More tubing exited the box on its other side, and….

Giles stared in dawning horror at the dark blood trickling from where the needle pierced Norah's inner elbow, then at her still face, the mirror of Spike's, growing paler even as he watched.


End file.
